


would it be enough?

by ALovelyLitwit



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Christmas fic, Hurt/Comfort, Jesse Manes is a War Crime, M/M, Soft Ending, brief mention of the toolshed, discussions of night panic attacks, references to violence, soft angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:40:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ALovelyLitwit/pseuds/ALovelyLitwit
Summary: Alex wakes up from a nightmare early Christmas morning and struggles over whether or not he should call Michael.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 46
Kudos: 154





	would it be enough?

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone else is writing super sweet Christmas fic and I wrote this! Inspired by my own struggles with night panic attacks and Taylor Swift's _Peace._ I haven't written a really Alex-centric fic in a while and wanted to try again.

Alex wakes up choking for air just past midnight on Christmas morning. Sweat trickles down the back of his neck, pillow soaked from his latest panic dream. The third one this week. His heart races erratically in his chest as he tries to breathe around the tightness pushing at the back of his throat. The sheets are twisted around his body, a corner of his fitted sheet tugged loose from the mattress. 

Leaning over, he switches on his bedside lamp, hoping the light will chase away the worst of the nightmare from his mind. Every night it’s the same thing. Only some of the details change. His father and Michael locked in a fight to the death. Alex unable to do anything but watch, frozen in place and all of his screams going unheard. For some reason, they’re never in the toolshed. They’re always down in the turquoise mines instead. The dank, dustiness of the caves surrounding them. Dark and damp and deep. 

And Michael always loses. Sometimes his father has a hammer, other times a gun. Once or twice, Jesse’s managed to steal Michael’s TK, turning it against him with glee. Tonight, it was the hammer again, and Alex hates how truly thankful he is for the banality. The normalcy of an everyday household tool rather than something horribly worse. But regardless, Michael had still died bloody at his feet.

He desperately wants to call Michael. To hear his voice, to know that he’s safe.

Grabbing his crutches, Alex lifts himself out of his bed and heads into the kitchen. He turns on every light as he goes and checks behind every closed door. Rationally, he knows there’s no one in his house. There’s a camera in nearly every corner and a dozen security lights outisde. Jesse is dead and gone and never coming back, but he checks anyway. 

In the kitchen, he makes a cup of peppermint tea and continues his journey around the house, making sure all his doors and windows are locked. Twice, three times. Until he’s able to breathe around the weight in his chest.

He curls up on his couch and turns on the tv. He flicks through several channels before landing on an overnight marathon of _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Wrapping his favorite too-warm wool blanket around his shoulders, he mutes the television and checks the clock on his phone. It’s just past one in the morning, and he thinks about calling Michael again. He knows that’s the only way he’ll have a chance of sleeping again before sunrise.

For thirty minutes, he wrestles with himself. There are half a million reasons not to call Michael. Alex knows that he’s in town. Probably only 11.2 miles away. Safe and very likely sound asleep in his bed. Or maybe he’s out on a late-night tow. Or better yet, maybe he’s found some warm company to share his bed. Alex hopes it’s the latter. His heart aches at the thought of Michael curled up next to someone that’s not him, but he also desperately wants Michael loved and held tight by whomever he chooses. Especially on Christmas morning.

He gives in, convincing himself that chances are Michael won’t answer. But that’s a lie because Michael always answers. No matter how late at night. Guilt presses at his chest, but he pushes send anyway. It rings only once before Michael answers.

‘Alex? Are you okay?’

Without warning, tears burn at the edges of Alex’s eyes. He tries to swallow the swell of emotion before answering. ‘Yeah. I’m okay. Why are you still awake?’

‘Just had an idea I wanted to work out. Got distracted down in the bunker tinkering around.’ He clears his throat, and his voice returns slightly sterner. ‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

‘Nightmares.’

‘The same ones as before?’ Night panic is something Alex has suffered since he was little. He’s told Michael about some of his various nightmares over the years. Mostly, the war-shaped dreams where he gets pinned down and watches his entire squadron get slaughtered. Those particular dreams somehow easiest to share. 

‘Different.’ 

‘Tell me.’ He wants to. Wants to dump all his baggage at Michael’s feet. But that feels so unfair. It’s Christmas and Alex’s problems aren’t Michael’s problems. He hasn’t exactly figured out the boundaries of their current relationship, but unloading his personal trauma onto Michael’s lap at 1:30 in the morning seems a bit much.

‘No. It’s okay. I’m okay. Just needed to hear your voice.’ He hates the way his words wobble at the end, the obvious tremble in his voice. And he knows Michael’s jaw is clenching with frustration at his inability to just open his mouth and say what he needs to say.

‘Alex. Tell me or I’m driving over there.’ 

It’s not an empty threat. He takes several deep, focused breaths - the sounds of Michael tapping something loudly on his worktable giving him a steady rhythm to center himself. ‘It’s my dad. And you.’ He takes another breath. ‘He kills you. Over and over. While I watch. So I needed to hear your voice.’ Tears threaten again. ‘And I’m so tired, but I’m afraid to sleep.’

‘Give me twenty minutes.’ The call ends and Alex stares at the blank screen, mouth agape. He calls him back immediately, but Michael doesn’t answer so he texts instead. Half a dozen assurances that he’s okay. That he’s watching Christmas movies and fine. That the peppermint tea is starting to work.

Michael ignores him. And twenty minutes later, he pulls into Alex’s driveway.

‘You didn’t have to come all the way over here.’ But Michael just continues to ignore him, shutting the front door behind him and shrugging off his coat, hanging it and his hat on Alex’s coat rack. He toes off his boots and then points toward Alex’s bedroom. 

‘Get back in bed. I’ll turn everything off.’ And then he’s down the hallway, putting Alex’s living room back to sleep.

Alex doesn’t move. Just stands dumbfounded by the door and waits. When Michael returns, he jerks his head towards the bedroom and disappears inside. Alex’s heart is racing again but for entirely different reasons.

Eventually, he follows Michael back into his bedroom, moving to his side of the bed while Michael pulls his sweater over his head and tosses it over Alex’s desk chair. He moves his hands to the tops of his jeans and raises an eyebrow at Alex. ‘Do you mind?’

Alex shakes his head and sinks onto his mattress, setting his crutches aside and slipping his legs underneath his duvet. Michael tucks the loosened fitted sheet back where it belongs and climbs in next to Alex, fluffing the comforter over both of them. Not that it’s necessary. Michael’s alien warmth is far more effective than any down comforter. They both switch off their bedside lamps and settle back into their pillows, staring up at the motionless ceiling fan overhead.

Michael shifts and reaches out for Alex, hand landing on his shoulder. ‘Come here.’ And Alex doesn’t hesitate. The cover of darkness giving him whatever courage he lacked earlier. He rolls over and presses into Michael’s side, sighing at how naturally they fit together. 

‘Take this off.’ Michael tugs at the back of Alex’s t-shirt. And somehow Alex understands there’s no sex in the request. Just the comfort of being connected skin-to-skin.

He nestles into the crook of Michael’s shoulder and tightens his arm around Michael’s waist. He tries to gather the correct words to tell him thanks. But as they so often do, words fail him and his breaths quicken with frustration. Michael’s hand lands in his hair, fingertips massaging at his scalp. ‘Sleep, Alex.’

And he does. Dreamless and deep. Not even visions of sugar plums plaguing his peace.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm litwitlady on Tumblr.


End file.
